


Paterson Prompts

by crimsoncomradeposts



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Angst, Edging, F/M, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Mentions of Pregnancy, Panty Kink, Shibari, Smut, Squirting, Voyeurism, mentions of children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsoncomradeposts/pseuds/crimsoncomradeposts
Summary: A short collection of Paterson prompts.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Tickle Fight

The pad of your index finger traces down the side of his neck, ghosting a feather light touch against the skin until you hit the spot that you know is just oh, so sensitive. You watch as his hand twitches, the pen held it in sliding to the right on the page, making the dot of the ‘i’ he’d just written down transform into more of a dash. A wide grin forms as Paterson laughs at the touch, his head dipping to the side towards your hand to ward off the ticklish sensation.

You can’t help but smile yourself. It’s always so satisfying to get this reaction out of him; to see him smile and laugh and just _enjoy_ himself around you. He always works _so hard_ , and you do everything you can to help brighten his day in small ways.

He can feel your finger trailing back down again the second his head straightens again, and in order to save his page of poetry from more scribbled words at your hand, he sets the pen in the page and closes the book, setting it aside just as you press your finer into that sensitive spot again. His body jolts this time, and he’s quick to turn around on the couch to face you.

Paterson shoves his hands forward, fingers working against your sides to hit all of those spots he knows will tickle you the most. He manages to elicit a shout in protest from you, making him grin all the more, your cries of protest spurring him on as you laugh. And he laughs too. Of course he does. He loves the sounds you emit, and in turn you love the same; the way you press your fingers to the sides of his neck and watch him squirm, laughing just as loudly as you are.

It’s in moments like these that you both forget about the stresses of the every day. In moments like these, life is perfect, and neither of you have a care in the world.


	2. Blanket Fort

“Pumpkin?” You’re so lost in the words of the book in your hand that you nearly miss the soft spoken endearment aimed at you from outside of your blanket fort. It isn’t until the makeshift entrance is parting to reveal Pat peeking in that you’re pulled from away from it. “What are you doing,” he asks, the beginnings of an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Reading,” you reply, holding up the book to show off the cover to him. It’s one you’ve read over and over again. Your favorite, of course.

Paterson moves forward on his hands and knees, joining you in the small fort, the space now barely big enough to contain the two of you, not that you mind of course. The second he sits down and makes himself comfortable on the carpeted floor, you lean into him, his arms wrapping around you to draw you closer while his lips graze along your cheek.

“Read with me?” Your head turns to look up at him hopefully, and he nods in return. How could he say anything other than yes? He’ll never tell you no. With a content smile, you rest your head against his shoulder, and he delivers another kiss, this time, to your forehead just as you open up your book. “Maybe a little later you can read to me some of your poems.”

Pat hums in response, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. Of course he will. You’re the only one he trusts enough to read such personal thoughts.


	3. Bad Day

By the time you get home from your grueling day, **Paterson** ’s already tucked up away in bed. He always tries, tries so hard to stay awake on those days when you come home late, but he’s got to get his sleep and you know that. But tonight you just … you need a little conversation, need just a little something to release the tension.

“Pat,” you whisper as you climb into bed, his arm already moving to drape across your middle and pull you close as he mumbles groggily. Your hand caresses his hair, and it isn’t long until his eyes are opening and he’s peering up at you in his sleepy haze.

“'S’late,” he says, words slurring together while he cozies up to you further. You nod, and even through his sleep-hazed mind, he can tell that you’re upset, that you’ve had a horrible, horrible day. “Tell me,” he urges, waking up enough to take it all in. “Tell me all about it.”

You do. You tell him everything while Paterson lies there and listens.


	4. Most Memorable Date

Both you and Paterson would agree on which date is most memorable for each of you. It was the date that solidified your relationship, the very same date that Paterson first opened up to you about his poetry.

It was early summer, and Pat had shown up to Barbour Pond with a bouquet chalk full of Sunflowers, Tulips, Alstroemeria, and Monte Casino Asters in one hand, his book of poetry clutched in the other. Your time spent together in the park had been perfect, the two of you basking in the summer sunshine near the glistening waters of the pond, the flowers settled delicately over your lap while Paterson read out various poems he’d written about you, for you.

He was sweet, tender, every bit a gentleman as you could have ever hoped for, and remains so to this day. You told him that you couldn’t promise him any poems, which had elicited a laugh on his part, but you did promise to treat him every bit as good as he’d been to you. He’d promised you the world and then some, admitting he’d never had eyes for anyone quite like he did for you, and still does.


	5. Talks of Children

You’re the first one to bring up the idea of expanding the family. It’d been a thought that’d crossed Paterson’s mind a hundred times, each of which he’s got stashed among the pages of his book of poetry. But he’d never brought it up, never wanted to press the issue until you decided that you were ready, that _you_ wanted this with him. And now, as you’ve come to find out after a recent false alarm, you discover is as good a time as any.

“I had a scare recently,” you say just before taking a bite of your meal.

Paterson’s mid-chew when he slows the movement of his jaw, brows knitted as he peers at you from across the table. “A scare?”

You hum an ‘mm hm’ in response, head nodding to emphasize the sound. “I was late,” you start, though your words do nothing to smooth the crease that’s formed between Paterson’s brows as he struggles to understand. “By about a week, and so I thought maybe I’d take a test…”

It isn’t until then, when you trail off that the look of realization overcomes him, quickly followed by…is that hope? A pang of guilt works its way into your chest when you deliver the news. “I’m not pregnant, Pat. I just… It…” You sigh, watching his face fall only a fraction as he does his best not to express those negative emotions in front of you. “Well,” the silverware is set down onto your plate, hands wiping against a napkin before they settle down onto your lap, “it got me thinking and I think we should try. We’re not getting any younger, and I want a baby with you, Pat.”

Any and all signs of disappointment on his face have swiftly made their exit, and you can see now the way that Paterson’s eyes light up, a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Your head nods, your own smile making an appearance. “I do.”

He’s overwhelmed, overjoyed, and already, thoughts of buying another journal pop into his mind. He’ll need one strictly dedicated to this, to you and the bundle of joy that the two of you will soon surely share. Paterson will document it all in that familiar way of his, he knows. How could he not when you’ve gifted him with something so special?


	6. ...And Ever And Ever

There are moments, much like this morning, when the sunlight filters in through the blinds to cast its glow upon the bedroom, that you find yourself with what you like to refer to as Paterson-like thoughts. Your mind wanders to things much greater than you; life, death, the meaning of it all and how you can and should better the time that you’ve got.

Your head swivels against the mismatched pillow that fails to coordinate with either the sheets or the blanket of the double sized bed only to find Paterson’s face mere inches for yours. He reaches for you, his arm a welcomed, heavy weight against your abdomen as he moves closer, crowding your side of the bed as he seeks out your warmth, his face tucking into your neck to nuzzle the skin there.

It’s a small gesture, but tender and very much Paterson. It’s a move that makes your heart clench in all the best ways. “ **Love me forever?** ” The words are whispered to him, your lips brushing against soft strands of hair just before you press a kiss to the spot.

Paterson hums, the sound soft in its own right. “ **….and ever and ever** ,” he replies just as quietly, a gentle little huff of his hot breath fanning across your skin. He squeezes you a little tighter then, pulling a smile from you just before the two of you slip back into another restful slumber.


	7. On Top

“What do you want, Pat?”

Your hand curves over the center seam of Paterson’s pants, palming the space that’s currently straining from his hardened cock. He whimpers at the touch, the apples of his cheeks bright red, and you know that if you were to brush back that hair of his that the shell of his ears would match in shade.

“You have to tell me what you want,” you murmur against his mouth, kissing him nice and slow just as you give him a gentle squeeze of your hand.

He’s still so reserved, even after all this time that you’ve been together. It’s a quality that you find endearing, even more so now when you get to tease him like this. Sliding down and off his lap, you lower yourself to the carpet below. Paterson watches with wide, interested eyes, the hazel of his irises now almost completely black as he takes in the sight of you kneeling in front of him.

The fingers of his left hand twitch against the material of the couch, itching to touch you when you lean in to mouth at his still clothed cock. His eyelids flutter closer momentarily before he looks down at you again, swallowing harshly just as the words finally find him. “ **I like it when you’re on top**.”

Your movements cease, head tilting just enough to look up at him through your lashes, and fuck, he thinks he could cum from the sight of you like this alone. The corners of your mouth curl upward to pull your lips into a satisfied smirk. “That’s my good boy.”

You don’t miss the way that your words make his cock twitch in his pants, and you pull away just long enough to free him from the confines of his uniform slacks. Lifting yourself up from the floor, you climb up into his lap, one hand steadying yourself on his shoulder while the other lines the head of his cock with your already slick cunt. Another whimper slips past his parted lips when the head catches and you sink down just enough to take the tip of him into your warmth.

“ _Please_.” He nearly chokes on the word, hips shifting up just slightly to sink himself a little deeper.

Placing both hands onto his shoulders now, you give in to his plea, opting—for once—not to tease him until he’s a whining, whimpering mess. With a moan, you lower your hips down onto his, taking everything that he has to offer, enveloping him with the warmth of your body.

Paterson’s hands move to grip your waist, fingers digging into flesh as you ride him to your heart’s content. He could die happy like this, he thinks; buried deep in you, your sweet praises and encouragement whispered to him between breathy moans helping to push him closer to his release.

And _you_ … You don’t think you’ll _ever_ tire of his shyness. Not when he’s looking up at you with such adoration and love, his hair mussed, parted lips swollen from your kisses. You’ll have him like this every time if that’s what he wants, because it makes you every bit as happy as it makes him.


	8. Bound

There’s something so beautiful about seeing you bound in rope, your body decorated in a pattern created by the way that Paterson has tied it around you.

Your arms and held firmly in place behind your back, the taut rope ensuring that they’ll go nowhere, while your nipples are caught between two strips of rope, the material rubbing insistently against them.

He could just sit here, drink in the sight of you like this—your body lying on the bed, spread open for him—and never want for anything more. It’s poetic, he thinks, the realization curving the corners of his mouth, watching the way your body shifts, the whimpers that you make when your nipples become overstimulated from the rope.

But he never can make you wait very long, his own selfish desires winning out when you whisper his name like a siren song, beckoning him to you. His fingers explore the curves of your body, dipping between rope and skin until he comes to rest briefly against the slick heat of your cunt. He skims the space there, relishing in the gasp that you make when he teases, hips chasing the movement of his fingers.

He can hear the way the rope creams and groans with the pull of your arms behind your back, the desperation to touch him finally settling in when he slides two fingers as deep as they will go, curling them to press and drag against your front wall. It’s glorious, sweet torture the way his fingers feel in combination with the rope that still rubs and twists your nipples, and it isn’t long until you come undone beneath you. Paterson makes you cum twice like this, whispering about how beautiful you look like this, wrapped like a gift meant only for him.

It isn’t until he’s got you absolutely soaked and pliant for him that he settles between your legs, cock sliding home into your warmth while his hands grasp at the intricately tied rope around your waist. He takes you once like this, slow and sensual while you lie on your back, the two of you cumming together with intermingled groans and moans. He’s still hard when he pulls out, flipping you over onto your stomach.

When he has you the second time, it’s with far less restraint. There’s about this view, your arms pinned tight behind your back, that sets him off in a way that nothing else does. He’s rougher this way, and this time when he comes, it’s with a guttural groan and a shout, hips snapping against your ass before drilling entirely, filling you up until it leaks freely from where your bodies are joined.

He stays buried deep, deep within you when he starts to undo the rope, taking great care to be as gentle as possible now. He undoes each knot swiftly until your arms are finally free from the bindings, and only then does he slip out of you, turn you over and finish untying you. Paterson leans down to pepper kisses along your face while he completes his mission, pulling the rope from your body to toss it aside onto the floor.

He’ll have you once more after that, with a tenderness much like the first, this time finally able to relish in the feel of your hands on him.


	9. Worth The Pain

The legs of the bar stool beside your own scrapes against the cold linoleum floor just before a warm body takes a seat next to you. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You know. Of course you do.

Perhaps, subconsciously, that’s why you chose to come to this very bar in the first place. It held happy memories once…right?

“You haven’t been answering your phone.” It’s a simple thing, the sentence that he’s just spoken, but just hearing the sound of his voice alone is enough to nearly rip the carefully threaded seams that hold back every emotion you’d suppressed since things with Paterson had ended.

A hum sounds in response, your head nodding to acknowledge his words, though you don’t answer him directly. Words will do neither of you any good now, you think to yourself as you nurse the drink in front of you.

“Can we talk,” Paterson asks, his gaze flickering over to where Doc has been standing, shining an already clean glass in an effort to make himself seem as if he isn’t listening to the conversation, “outside?”

A long sigh slips past your parted lips, but you nod all the same and release your hold on your drink just before sliding down off of the stool. Paterson leads the way, and you dutifully follow, exiting the bar to carry on whatever conversation he’s started out in the crisp Autumn air.

“I don’t want to do this,” he starts, whirling around to face you, his eyes cast downward towards the concrete beneath your feet, “be without you. I can’t.” It’s then that he lifts his gaze to look at your face. “ **Loving you was worth all the pain**.”

Pain. The word alone stabs directly into your heart because you know, you know that you’d always kept him at arms length despite his best efforts, always desperate to push him away like all the others that came before him. Never did you let anyone in, but you thought once upon a time that _maybe_ you could let _him_ in.

But even now, standing face to face on the old, cracked sidewalk, you cling to your old ways. “ **You confused love with lust; I never loved you**.”

For anyone else, those words would be enough to seal the fate of your relationship. It would be enough to have someone, anyone else walk away. But not Paterson. Even despite the hurt reflected in his face, his head shakes and his stubbornness to let you go without a fight persists. “You don’t mean that. I know what you’re doing, pushing me away. It’s all over your face.”

The corners of your mouth pull downward into a frown, arms now crossing defensively against your chest while he continues to speak. “ **I’ll follow you, even if it means the end for me**. I’m not giving up on you.”

You aren’t sure when your vision’d become blurry, or when Paterson had moved to wrap his arms around you, holding you close as it all becomes too much for you, but you’re thankful for his warmth and his kindness.

Most of all, you’re thankful for his love.


	10. Bad Memories

Paterson has always been a sensitive soul; he sees the beauty in things that most people wouldn’t, and he feels things that most don’t. You’ve seen him cry a time or two over the course of your relationship, but never like when he’d come home from a long, grueling day from work a few months ago.

He’d been a tearful mess, and as if that wasn’t clue enough that something was wrong, he’d even gone so far as to collapse down onto his knees and hug Marvin. Paterson had seen a dog that day on his route, a brindle mutt much like the one he’d grown up with. It’d gotten itself loose from its leash and darted out into the road. He slammed on his brakes and he thought… He thought…

It had survived, thankfully, but the memory still hadn’t come without a price. The experience had brought up an old memory that Paterson had stored away from his youth, of his childhood dog darting out onto the road, only to get hit in front of him. He supposes now that the tears have been shed, and he’s hugging Marvin and you’re hugging him, that he truly has never gotten over the traumatizing experience of his youth.

Your hand reaches up to gently stroke his hair, whispering assurances to him that everything is and will be alright, that he can cry it all out if he needs to. You won’t judge him, and he’s thankful for that. Not even Marvin judges him, letting Paterson cradle him in his arms.


	11. Out Of The Blue

Marvin’s little feet carry him forward in a hurry, tugging at the leash that’s held firmly in Paterson’s hand while he walks alongside you, the two of you unhurried as you stroll hand in hand through the neighborhood. Every so often, the two of you will stop when Marvin comes to a halt to sniff a mailbox or a pole, or anything, really, the small dug huffing and snorting at whatever scent he’s picking up.

Dusk has already settled over the city, and Paterson’s resolved not to keep you out long. He’d much rather spend his time with you at home. Your hand gives his a gentle squeeze to pull him from his thoughts, and when his gaze sweeps over to where you stand beside him, he finds that you’re smiling at him. He’s all too happy to return the expression with a smile of his own.

It’s then that he leans over to steal a quick kiss, your smile only widening when he pulls back. “What was that for,” you wonder aloud, the question eliciting a shrug from Paterson.

“Because I can,” he replies, now lacing his fingers with yours just as Marvin sets off again. The two of you round the corner now, making your way back towards home, hands clasped tight and smiles still in place. In this small snippet of your shared lives, all feels right in the world.


	12. Poetry

“Recite one of your poems for me?” You and Paterson are lying in bed, him on his back and you on your side with a hand tucked up underneath your head whilst one of his arms is wrapped around you, holding you close. It’s Saturday morning, and dawn’s first light is filtering in through the sheer curtains to cover the room in a golden hue.

Paterson inhales a deep breath, his head nodding as he works his jaw, mentally preparing himself to do as you ask. He knows how much you love his poems, and yet it never fails to amaze him that you’re always so interested in hearing them.

“When I wake up earlier than you,” his breath catches in his throat when your hand dips below the blankets slipping past the elastic band of his boxers, fingers wrapping around his half hard cock to give it slow strokes. “And you are turned to face me.”

His eyelids flutter closed, inhale stuttering and bottom lip wobbling only a fraction when your hand tightens around him, still giving him slow, steady strokes. “Face on the pillow, and hair spread around, I… I…” His hips buck up into your hand when you take a moment to focus on the head of him, smearing the precum that’s begun to leak out around the sensitive area. “Oh, _fuck_ , I take a chance and stare at you.”

He does just that, his gaze shifting over to your face, lips parted as short, shallow breaths escape him. His brows are creased, lashes fluttering when his eyes close only briefly before he looks up at you again. “Go on,” you urge, the movement of your hand becoming faster.

“Amazed, in love, and afraid,” he groans, eyes screwing shut and head pressing back into his pillow now. “ _Fuckfuckfuck_ ,” he chants, over and over, and he forgets the words now; they’re lost to him, the only focus he has now is that of your hand working him closer to his release. “I’m gonna, _I_ —”

He cums with a loud groan, hips bucking up yet again into your hand, cock twitching and throbbing as he smears his cum all along the interior of his boxers. You release your hold on him with a satisfied hum, hand pulling itself free from the confines of the covers, fingers sticky with his spend.

When he opens his eyes, he looks over to find you licking yourself clean, your eyes focused on him and him alone. He groans at the sight, and he swears that if he hadn’t just cum, he would do so right now.


	13. Punishment

He knows what you’ve done. How could he not when he’s discovered his notebook full of poetry turned just so, _just enough_ to let him know that you’d been down in his space, thumbing through the pages. But he has yet to say a word. And maybe, he thinks, he won’t. Maybe, he’ll let his hands do the talking for him.

The pads of Paterson’s fingers alternate between light taps and heavy strokes against your clit, the shifting sensations causing your hips to rise up and off of the mattress where you’re currently resting, your back pressed against his chest as he leans against the headboard.

“Mmf— _fuck_ ,” you cry out, your release imminent. But Pat can always sense when you’re close, can always tell by the way your hips undulate and rise from the sheets, by the way you whimper and whine for him so needing. It’s then that he uses his hand to slap your wet cunt once and then removes it entirely to cease any and all sensation, the move causing you to cry out for a different reason entirely now.

Your chest heaves with labored breaths as your hips settle back down, a whimper of protest sounding when you turn your head to look up at him. Paterson’s never like this, never, unless…

His hand returns to your body once again, and all thoughts flee from your mind when you focus on nothing but the glorious feeling of the orgasm that you’re quickly reaching towards once more. But again, just like the last time, he waits and waits until you’re _right there_ before he pulls his hand away, and this time… This time your mouth opens to allow an angry sentence to spill from your mouth—except, Paterson beats you to it.

“I saw,” he says, fingers now trailing up to pinch and pull at one of your nipples. “Saw that you were rummaging around in the basement.” He flicks roughly at the pebbles bud, just hard enough to pull a shocked gasp from you.

A shiver runs along your spine, and he doesn’t miss the way that your thighs press together when he speaks. “Did you go through my book?”

“No,— _ah_!” You start, prepared to fully protest, but are quickly cut off by another flick of your nipple. “I didn’t, Pat.”

“No?” His hand lowers back down to the apex of your thighs, fingers slowly, slowly tracing around your clit, though this time he doesn’t touch it. Your hips tilt, chasing the sensation in hopes that he’ll give you what you so desperately need. Instead, he gives your cunt another slap, your body jolting in response. “Be honest with me.”

“I didn’t! I didn’t, I swear. I was going to,” you whine and whimper and moan, arching back into him when he finally, finally presses a finger to your clit. “I didn’t. I was going to, but I didn’t. I knew you wouldn’t want me to. Not without you there.”

His hand moves lower, your legs parting to give him better access just as he slips two fingers into your wet heat. Your head tips back against his shoulder, jaw falling slack as moan after moan falls from your lips from the welcomes sensation. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit as he works his fingers against that sensitive spot within you, quickly bringing you to your release; rewarding you for being good, even though you’d wanted to be anything but.

The wet squelch of his fingers sliding in and out of you mingle with your cries of ecstasy when you finally cum with a wet gush that soaks the sheets beneath you. He keeps his hand there, two fingers buried deep, his palm against your clit, letting your hips grind yourself against him slowly to ride out the sensation until it’s too much.

Paterson turns his head to press a kiss to your temple, murmuring sweet nothings into your skin, still feeling the fluttering of your cunt around his fingers. He waits for your breathing to calm before he pulls his hand away to settle it against your hip, still holding you close.

He could lie and say that he doesn’t enjoy this, these rare moments where he gets to behave like this with you. But he knows, knows that you like them every bit as much. Of course you do. After all, why else would you be so careless as to move the notebook and alert him to the fact that you’d been downstairs? You’d wanted him to catch you, and you think, maybe you’ll just let him catch you more often.


	14. Stay

The hallway closet door slams shut, your suitcase bounces against the mattress just prior to you unzipping and flinging open the top, haphazardly shoving various items of clothing into it. There is zero attention to just what exactly you’re grabbing, not that you care in the heat of the moment. Your only goal is this one thing: get out.

“Please, don’t.” A large, warm hand wraps around your wrist, the touch gentle in its own right, accompanying the plea that’s spilled from Paterson’s mouth.

Your motions halt for only a moment, and it’s enough to give him some small flutter of hope that maybe you’ll reconsider, but that hope dies the moment you abruptly pull your arm from his loose grasp.

“ **You think that this is easy for me**?” A huff of dry laughter escapes you, your vision blurring with unshed tears as you focus on the task in front of you, knowing that if you so much as glance in his direction, all resolve will be lost. “You’re gone all day, and when you come home, it’s just long enough for dinner and then you’re back out there doing god knows what.”

“I just go have a drink,” he says in exasperation, his hands lifting to pass his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands, as if doing so will reassure him that this is nothing more than some bad dream. “I didn’t realize that was some crime.”

Your head shakes as your hands shakily zip up the suitcase. “You don’t get it, Pat. You never do. You’re so lost in that head of yours that you don’t see what you’re doing.”

“Stay,” he begs, the pitch of his voice raising as panic fills him when you step around him to make your exit. “Just stay, please. I’ll… I’ll go.”

——————–

Hours have passed until Paterson arrives back at the home again. He’s relieved when he finds that your suitcase is still by the door, a sign that you’re still home, even after everything. But the panic still fills him, unsure if you’re even willing to speak with him, wondering if you’re willing to work things out with him. Surely it must be if you’re still here.

He finds you seated at the kitchen table, his various notebooks full of his poetry scattered across the table. Paterson hesitates at the threshold of the room, the floor creaking softly beneath the shift of his weight, and it takes you a moment before you’re willing to look to him. Your eyes are rimmed with red, cheeks stained with the tears that you’d finally shed once he’d left to give you some much needed space.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, motioning to the books with a wave of your hand. “I know you hate when I take them out without telling you.” You hiccup, a sniffle following the sound before you speak again. “I just needed to be reminded of something good; needed to be reminded that I’m actually really lucky when it comes to you, Pat.”

His head’s already shaking halfway through your apology, and surely you’re not the one that needs to apologize, he thinks when he steps further into the room. No, no, surely not. It’s him who should be sorry. He’d let you down, after all.

He tells you as much as he crosses the small space from the doorway to where you sit, and when he’s close enough, you rise up from your spot at the table and abandon the books in favor of him. Paterson’s arms wrap around you, holding you close, protectively, never wanting to let you go after today’s ordeal.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your forehead just as he places a kiss to the space there. “I’m sorry.”

If ever there were a moment where he hadn’t appreciated you, he surely does now.


	15. The Route To You (Demon!Paterson)

It’d been raining, much like it is tonight, when he’d first come across you, the umbrella that you hold now staving off the large droplets of water, creating a halo of safety around you. He snorts to himself at the thought, as if a halo could truly protect you.

“You’re out here later than usual,” he notes openly when you close your umbrella and step up onto the bus. He would know. He’d been learning your schedule ever since the very first day you’d crossed his path. There’d been a brief moment of worry on his part earlier in the day when he didn’t see you at your usual time, but that feeling is now replaced by relief as you stand before him.

A soft smile stretches briefly across your face while you deposit a few coins into the slot to pay your due. “Long work day.”

Paterson nods in understanding, because he does understand, of course. He’s lucky to make it home by ten each night, not that it truly matters to someone like him. Though this constant, mundane repetition sometimes does feel worse than Hell, if he’s being honest with himself. He suppose, in part, that it’s one of the reasons he’d latched onto you so tightly, wanting to learn all the he can, wanting to be close to you, if nothing else, to make his own days better. To make it all worthwhile.

He watches as you step away, his gaze lifting to the large overhead rear-view mirror that spans the width of the top of the windshield. It’s typical of you to sit towards the back near one of the exits, earbuds in your ears and music up loud to drown out the loud buzz of other commuters. But today isn’t a typical day. You sit close, much closer than usual. So close, in fact, that you’re only one seat back from where Paterson sits just behind the wheel.

His pulse amps up at the realization as his foot presses to the gas.

No, today’s no ordinary day. Today’s the day that he will _finally_ have you for himself.


	16. Home At Last (Demon!Paterson)

It’s seven fifteen when you go running past him, breaths visibly huffing out into the cold autumn night. He watches with hungry eyes, his back resting against the stone exterior of Shades, hands shoved deep into denim pockets while he eyes the way your ass bounces so deliciously in the form fitting spandex.

You should _really_ be careful, he thinks to himself while you run off into the distance, there are dangerous predators lurking about at night. But not to worry, he’ll keep you safe.

He’s been following you for weeks now, getting to know your routine both on and off his bus route; needing to know every little detail so that he can plan this out just right. He knows that you’ll get home just after quarter ‘til, you’ll shower away the grime and the sweat, get all comfortable in your favorite oversized t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and that you’ll curl up with a nice book before bed.

But tonight when he makes his appearance in the shadows of your home, he finds that your legs are bare, the t-shirt barely coming to mid-thigh. It’s as if you _knew_ he’d be coming for you tonight. He wonders, briefly, if there’s anything beneath that well worn shirt.

He knows that he won’t have to wonder for long.

It’s on the couch that you fall asleep, giving in to the temptation of an early night. There’s a slight curl to your lips, a soft smile, and Paterson can’t help but wonder if it’s _him_ that you’re dreaming of. One can surely hope, that is.

It’s in his basement that you wake, the clean scent of your home replaced by the mold and mildew that lurk in the stone crevices of the dark and decrepit space you find yourself in now.

With a gasp, you sit upright, though the sudden movement is not without consequence. Your head swims, dizziness taking over as the sound of blood pumping in your ears can be heard. “Where am I,” you ask, panicked.

You can see him there, leaning against the nearby wall, his lower half bathed in the light from the overhead bulb while his upper half sinks into the shadows. There’s a hint of something…. _red_ , you think, where his eyes should be, but it’s gone in such a flash that you find yourself doubting what you’ve just seen.

“Where I am?” Your tone is more forceful this time, and even though his face is hidden in the shadows, you can see the cheshire-like smile that forms, curling his lips upward to expose blunt teeth.

“Home,” he replies matter-of-factly.

It isn’t until he steps out from the shadows, his full body illuminated now by the overhead bulb that you recognize him.

“You’re…”

“Paterson,” he replies, cutting off whatever it was about a ‘bus driver’ you were about to say.

You swallow harshly, the gulp audible in the quiet of the basement. But you needn’t be afraid, even as he steps closer, lowers himself down to the ground where you sit, tethered to the wall. He’ll make you see soon enough that you’re meant to be here with him.

You were always meant to be here.


	17. Dark Academia Pat

_I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine._

The words are etched on the top of the wooden table where Paterson’s just taken a seat, the tip of his index finger ghosting along the words, barely touching the carved quote. Emily Brontë, he recognizes, and he can’t help but wonder if whomever memorialized this quote atop the table did so out of boredom or out of the grief that their heart suffered by the hands of another.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he fails to hear the shuffle of feet along the carpeted aisle of the library in which he sits. “Did someone break your heart too?”

Paterson startles, his eyes snapping up to look at you as you stand opposite of him on the other side of the table. “What,” he asks, the expression that he wears showing off his confusion just as much as his tone.

“I saw you were tracing the quote.” Your hand lifts to point where his remains, finger hovering just above the words. “You had this wistful look on your face, I just thought…” You trail off, and Paterson lowers his hand down, covering a portion of the quote when he does so.

It takes him a moment to respond, he’s so focused on the way that your face is illuminated by the warm glow of the lamps that line the long table where he sits. “Yes,” he finally says, clearing his throat before continuing. “It’s…recent. I thought maybe I’d come here, work on some writing and with any luck I’d get my mind to stop racing.”

He watches the way the corners of your mouth curl into the slightest smile when you respond. “I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar.” You pull out a chair, still reciting one of the many lines you’d memorized from your favorite books as you take a seat across from him. “Who wants what luck would bring? I don’t.”

“D.H. Lawrence,” Paterson says almost immediately, a flash of recognition flitting across his eyes.

He smiles when yours broadens, your head nodding in response. “Good catch. Never figured you for the Women In Love type.”

Paterson’s shoulder rise and fall, the smile he wears shifting into something much more shy. “I’m a sucker for the classics.”

You rest your arms atop the table and lean in, the glow of the nearby lamp only highlighting more of your features, and Paterson swears his heart skips a beat or two when you speak again. “What else are you a sucker for?”


	18. Jealousy

Notebooks are scattered across the kitchen table, each one open to a nondescript page that’s filled from top to bottom with Paterson’s scrawled handwriting. Somewhere, off in the depths of the home, the furnace whirs to life, pumping in hot hair from the basement to chase away the chill of the late Autumn evening.

You tug your sweater tighter around you, hugging the fabric to your body, clinging to it like a lifeline while your eyes scan the open pages. Some of the poems are about you—about how much Pat adores you, loves you, never wants to leave—others are about someone else entirely. They seem innocent enough, these poems about this unnamed woman, a fellow poet, by the sounds of what Paterson has written. Innocent or not, the fact that he’s written about her at all makes the bile rise in your throat.

Pat never writes about other people. Just you. Just places.

There’s never been anyone else…until now.

The front door opens, and Marvin gives a hearty bark, the sound immediately shifting into a growl of annoyance when he spots Paterson entering the home. Your chest tightens knowing that you’ll have to have this unpleasant conversation; you’re bracing yourself for the truth, that this day has finally come, that Paterson has found someone else.

“Pumpkin?” His voice carries through the small home while he works to slip out of his shoes, setting them neatly beside the door, his lunchbox still in hand.

When he receives no response, he steps through the living room and into the kitchen where he finds you. Paterson’s eyes shift downward from your face to his personal collection of poems open for public consumption across the kitchen table. The smile that he so often gives you upon his return home fades from view.

There’s a moment of silence that stretches on between you, and finally, finally Paterson is the one to break. “What’s all this?” He motions with his free hand to the table, keeping his distance whilst his free hand grasps the handle of his lunch box just a little tighter.

“Who is she,” you whisper, barely able to muster up the question.

Paterson swallows thickly, and a shiver wracks your body in response. It’s then that he seems to snap out of his own thoughts, taking steps towards you now, setting his lunchbox down onto the table—atop a couple of his notebooks—as he makes his way to you. When he moves to wrap his arms around you, you lift a hand and place it against his chest, stopping him short.

“Who is she?”

His head shakes, arms lifting to try again, and this time you let him encircle you in his warmth. “No, pumpkin. No, it’s not anything like you think.” He huffs a sigh, drawing you in close, holding you against him while he tries so hard to clear the air. “She’s a fellow poet. We’ve just been exchanging ideas, sharing thoughts. It’s….” Paterson trails off, his lips tracing along your temple, depositing a kiss here and there, wanting nothing more than to reassure you, comfort you. “It’s not at all what you think. There’s only you for me. It’s only ever been you.”

“You’ve been gone a lot. So much more than before.” It’s the only thing you can think to say; it is the truth, after all. “Pat, I… I miss you.”

A frown tugs downward at the corner of his mouth, and the warmth of his arms leave your body in favor of framing your face with his hands. His thumbs gently swipe along your cheeks, taking a moment to feel the soft skin there. “I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow after work you and I can take a walk down to the falls?”

“See the colors,” you ask in return, a faint smile pulling at your lips.

Paterson’s mouth now twists to mirror your expression, the familiar warmth settling back into his gaze as he nods. “See the colors. Maybe you can give me some ideas for a new poem,” he suggests, albeit timidly.

Your smile widens now, that jealous, bitter feeling all but evaporated. “I’d like that.”

Pat leans down to press his mouth to yours in a brief kiss. He’d like that too.


	19. Caught In The Act

A deep inhale against the cotton that’s pressed against his nose and mouth elicits a shudder of pleasure that runs straight down to Paterson’s groin. The scent of you alone is enough to send a rush of blood southbound until his cock is rigid and throbbing in his hand.

His lips part against the fabric, sucking some of it into his mouth to get what little taste of you he’s able to obtain through this method. A groan rips through him, his hand begin to vigorously pump his cock in rough, quick strokes. He’d had every intention on taking this slow, wanting to revel in the smell and taste of you, but having this—as close to the real thing as he can get, it’s sending him over the edge faster than he could have ever imagined.

He’d agreed to house-sit for you while you were away on business, and he’d promised himself that he’d be good. Paterson has always been so good at keeping promises, but he just couldn’t, not where you’re concerned. He’d failed the very first day you’d gone; breathed in your scent through lacy material that time while he’d rutted all over your pillow, painting the soft material with his cum.

But now, lying back against the freshly washed linens, his clothes still on, he thrusts his cock up into his hand as he all but suffocated himself with your underwear.

He’s so lost in the moment, so lost in thoughts of you that he fails to notice the slide of your key into the deadbolt, and the opening and closing of the front door.

It isn’t until he spots you at the threshold of the room that he notices that you’re here, the realization startling him.

He’s a babbling mess, hurrying to try and tuck himself away as he stammers out an apology that he knows will be useless. But when you step forward, a hand reaching out to stop him, you surprise him in another way entirely.

“Don’t apologize, Pat,” you say, the corners of your lips curling upward to form a playful smirk. “In fact, I want you to undress.”

Paterson swallows, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. His cock twitches in interest when you step further into the room, your heels heavy against the carpet. He does as he’s told, stripping free of his clothes while you undo the buttons of your blouse, pulling it open but leaving the remainder of it tucked into your pencil skirt.

He thought he’d been hard before, but now he’s painfully so at the mere sight of you. Lying back on the bed, he watches silently as you round the bed like a predator stalking its prey. Perching up on the edge of the bed, you reach for him, ghosting your fingers along the length of his cock with feather light touches. The sensation causes him to gasp, his hips instinctively thrusting upwards.

“How long have you been doing this, Pat, sneaking in here and sniffing my panties?”

Paterson exhales a shaky breath, a broken groan sounding when you barely come into contact with him again.

Your hand wraps around his cock, thumb brushing back and forth along the underside of the head, his eyes rolling back at the stimulation. “Answer me.”

It’s so hard for him to think with you touching him like this, and he swears he could cum from this alone. “S-since, _ah_! Just since Monday,” he pants breathlessly, chest heaving with the shallow breaths that he takes.

“I think you should try that apology again,” you reply as your hand begins a languid rhythm up and down the length of his cock.

What little blood hasn’t rushed straight to his throbbing cock rushes through his ears with a thunderous sound. He’s barely able to focus on your words. “I, I, _oh_ fuck, _ffffuck_ , I’m sorry!”

You can feel the way that he throbs in your hand, and gliding it back down to the base, you tighten your grasp, staving off the orgasm that he’s _so close_ to having. He cries out at the loss of it when he feels it waning away.

“You’re sorry for what?”

Paterson whimpers when you’re hand resumes it’s slow movement. “I’m s-sorry for sniffing your panties and f-for getting myself off.”

You hum in acknowledgment of his words, pleased with the apology. “Good boy.” He groans at the praise, his cock once again twitching against your palm. “Will it happen again?”

His eyes widen and his head shakes vehemently. “N-no, no it won’t happen again.”

Immediately, you remove your hand from him, pulling a whine of protest from the back of his throat. You lift a brow in challenge, daring him to try again.

The shaking of his head turns into a tentative nod. “Yes. Yes it will.”

Satisfied, you reach for him again, his hips thrusting his cock up into your hand. “Yes it will,” you reiterate.

You’ll be going away again in another couple of weeks and he’ll be asked to swing by again. You know, as well as he does, that he’ll be unable to help himself.

Without warning, you increase the speed in which your hand strokes the length of him, pulling groans and whimpers from Paterson as he writhes on the bed beside you. “That’s my good boy,” you murmur, eliciting another whimper from him. “Are you going to cum for me?”

Paterson nods, hips continuing to thrust upward while you stroke him towards his release. You wait until he’s right at the verge, until his balls draw up and his cock gives one hefty twitch before you release him entirely, removing all stimulation from him just as he cums. He cries out at both the loss and at his orgasm as his cock bobs and twitches with half-hearted spurts, his cum dripping down onto his abdomen.

You lean down, murmuring more words of praise for him as you lap at his spend, cleaning him up before sending him on his way.


	20. Like Clockwork

It’s like clockwork; every day at 5:05 PM, he pulls up to the bus stop on the corner of Maple and Wayne, and every day you board with a friendly hello and a bright smile. It’s been weeks now that you’ve been taking this route with him, never once failing to ask him about his day, if driving the same route ever gets tiring…if the passengers ever get on his nerves…

The latter always makes him smile, a light huff of amusement expelling from his mouth when you ask. “Not yet,” he says.

“Ah,” you reply, nodding your head whilst putting on a faux sense of thoughtfulness. “Maybe tomorrow then.”

When he glances up into the rearview mirror, he finds you smiling back at him through the reflection, the two of you laughing softly at this joke shared between you. It’s easy to talk to you, he thinks. You make it so effortless, like he’s known you his whole life. He wonders if you’re like this with everyone…

He’d be willing to bet as much.

When you pass over Passaic River, you ask if he’s ever been to the falls, or if he prefers to stay far, far away from his route on his day off. He smiles at this too, and admits that he does visit the falls, quite often, in fact. Paterson allows it to slip that he writes his poetry there and that certainly grabs your attention.

You dive right into asking him all sorts of questions regarding his poetry, even going so far as to inquire as to whether or not he might allow you the privilege of reading a page or two some day.

Paterson smiles, giving another glance to the rearview mirror. He can feel the steady rhythm of his heart in his chest, and when your eyes meet once more, his pulse quickens. He hesitates, and then…

“Are you free at all this week?”

It appears that the question has left you rather taken aback, albeit briefly. Your expression melts into a warm smile and you nod. “Any time after five.”

His smile widens, and though his gaze returns to the road, he braves yet another question. “Meet me at the falls on Wednesday?”

“I’ll do you one better,” you reply much quicker than he’d anticipated.

“Come pick me up. Say 5:05 at the corner of Wayne and Maple.”

There is a skip in the beating of his heart and a flutter in the depths of his belly. It’s a date, he thinks to himself as the bus rumbles along the usual route.


	21. Dressed To Impress

“Honey? What’s all this?” Pat’s voice easily carries throughout the small home the two of you share just as his steps come to a halt when he nears the end of the bed.

His shoulders are risen slightly, taught with tension from a long day at work, and as he stands here still dressed in his work attire, he finds himself silently assessing the clothes that you have laid out atop the bedspread. There is nothing inherently wrong with what you have chosen, he realizes, but the outfit is just so _different_ from what he’s accustomed to wearing. Are you trying to tell him that you don’t like his typical ensembles, he wonders.

Out of his periphery he notices you popping your head around the doorframe to peek into the room. You smile and step past the threshold, swiftly approaching where he stands, still hesitantly starting down at the outfit.

“I was out shopping with some friends this morning and I saw this outfit and thought you would look _so good_ in it.” As you step beside him, you link your arm with his and lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. In response, Paterson turns his head to deposit a kiss to the crown of yours.

He hums in automatic response, his eyes once again falling to the clothes. “Well,” he sighs in resignation, “shall I go try it on?”

Who knows, he thinks to himself, perhaps you are right—as you typically are—and he _will_ look good in it. With a giddy smile, you pry yourself away from him and quickly lean in to gift him a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Pat.”

He’s always so ready and willing to please you, especially if it’s something as simple as this. How could he ever say no to you when you’re always thinking of him? He sheds the coat that he wears and grabs hold of the clothes that you have picked out for him before disappearing into the nearby bathroom. As silence descends upon the room, you perch yourself atop the bed beside his coat and wait patiently for him to return.

A few minutes, and a whole lot of fidgeting later, Paterson finally makes his way back to the bedroom. He hesitates in the doorway, a strange look on his face.

Everything is a much tighter fit than he is used to, from the charcoal colored sweater to the dark denim jeans that cling to his muscular legs. The wool coat that you have chosen _does_ , however, suit him rather well, but the remainder of it…

Well…

It isn’t very _him_ , or so he feels.

“You don’t like it,” you say, verbalizing the thoughts that he refuses to say.

His face falls almost immediately. He hates disappointing you, especially when you go out of your way for him like this.

“It’s okay,” you assure him with a brief shake of your head and a warm smile. “You don’t have to like everything I buy you, Pat.” Rising up from your spot on the bed, you cross the space to reach where he remains standing, palms now gliding up along his torso, feeling the soft material of the sweater underneath. “Why don’t you get changed. We can return these tomorrow and this time around, you can help me pick out some new pieces.”

Paterson’s smile returns and he nods in approval. “I’d like that,” he replies before bending to press his lips to yours.


End file.
